


The Sloop John B Affair

by spikesgirl58



Category: Miami Vice (TV), The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:11:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's trouble cooking in Miami and UNCLE picks up a couple of local agents to help them out.  It's just no one told them that Crockett and Tubbs plays by their own rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sloop John B Affair

Norman Rafferty leaned back from his small view screen and rubbed his eyes.  The green lettering was supposed to be easier on them, but he’d debated that conclusion at the moment.  Or, perhaps it was the knowledge that something big would soon be going down topside that kept him from fully concentrating on his task.

He stood and stretched, looking longingly towards the door.

“Go on,” a second voice gently urged.  Norman glanced over at his salt-and-pepper haired companion, not quite daring to believe what he’d heard.

“Beg pardon?” he spoke loudly, mindful of the man’s hearing loss.

“You heard me.”  Sid Spooner smiled over at the younger man.  “You’ve been up and down a dozen times tonight.  If you’re so interesting in the bust, then go up top.  You’re no good to me or UNCLE down here.”

“Thanks, Sid.  I’ll be back just as soon as the fireworks stop.”  Norm hurriedly cleared his screen and stored the disk in a drawer.  With that, he was gone.

Sid looked after the man for a long moment. Then he leaned over and locked the drawer.  He shook his head fondly and returned to his work.  He knew he was right; he didn’t need Norm down here, especially since the action wouldn’t touch this little room.  Still, if Norm had stayed, with his normally excellent hearing and quickness of observation, Sid might have been alerted to the dull scraping sound not far from where Sid now sat alone and alerted people.  Sid heard nothing.

 

Norm shrugged into a dark windbreaker and walked out on to the deck of the _Martha Rose_.  Cool salty air blew gently against his face and he shivered at the prospect of what was to come.

“Norm, what are you doing up here?”  Another UNCLE agent asked him from his spot against the rail.

“Sid sent me up in case you needed another hand.”

“Hell, you were probably wearing a rut in the floor wondering what was going on up here.”

“That as well.”  Norm laughed.  “So is there?  Anything going on?”

“There’s been a cigar boat sitting off our starboard side for about half an hour.  We think it’s our THRUSH friend, but we’re not certain.  There is a lot of civilian activity here as well.”

“What’s he waiting for?”

“Watching us, judging our merit, checking us out, take your pick.  Drug running isn’t anything new to THRUSH, but it is to this guy.”

“He should learn to keep his fingers out of THRUSH Central’s cash drawer or he wouldn’t have to stoop to such underhanded means to refill it.”

“Yes, well, we will shortly put an end to his law breaking ways and hopefully make THRUSH feel it in their bank account.

“We have the stuff on board?”  Norm sometimes felt like a mushroom, kept in the dark and fed crap.

“A couple of days ago, we intercepted a runner near Key West with nearly a hundred pounds of cocaine.  It should be enough to build a bridge of trust and _Bon Amie_ with our friend out there.”

“I just wish he’d do something. “  Norm stared out into the dark, finally picking out the pinpoint of light that was the other boat.

                                                                                ****

The cigar boat rocked easily upon the waves, its occupants bobbing along with it.  This was a boat built for speed and maneuverability.  It could outrun just about anything.

Vice Detective Sonny Crockett adjusted his squatting position and resumed his watch upon the _Martha Rose_.

“What are they waiting for?” his partner asked.  Rico Tubbs shifted impatiently.  He was not a man who waited well.

“Us,” Crockett replied, dropping the field glasses and rubbing his eyes.  “Unless they’ve met with this joker before, they probably don’t know what sort of drop to expect.”

“Sure hope this lead us back to Cordoba.  I want to break that Cuban so bad, I can taste it.”

Crockett smiled and lit a cigarette, then lifted the binoculars back to his eyes.

Suddenly his senses were assaulted by a barrage of sound and light, as an explosion ripped through the _Martha Rose_ and the quiet Florida night.

Both men dropped behind the crafts protective rail and rode out the first shocks of the blast, holding on to anything they could as the boat bounced up and down like a bobbin.

Crockett blinked a few times to readjust his vision and cautiously peeked over the rail of the boat.  “Tubbs, my man, I think you are just going to have to keep on longing for that taste.”

 

Chapter One

Illya Kuryakin pushed a hand through his blond hair and yawned.  He stretched and then listlessly poked the ashes of his campfire.    Around him, night was settling upon the valley and the sounds of the night steadily replace the noises of the days.  It was just the rush of the pine trees and an occasional animal that disturbed the quiet now.  

He lifted his binoculars and checked once again on his target.  The man was dozing, his feet stretched out towards the fire place, his book fallen away.    When Mr. Waverly mentioned a surveillance job on a vacationing THRUSH official, Illya had expected a little more action. But after a week of watching the man putter about the small cabin and fish during the day and read by the fireplace at night, Illya had come to the conclusion that this was definitely not his idea of a good time.

Nonetheless, Illya made the proper, concise notes his employer demanded, and did his best to enjoy the peace and quiet of the countryside.  This did give him time to reflect and that can be a good thing, if a man was into self-reflection.  At Illya’s age, now in his late forties, he was more looking forward to being relieved and sleeping on a decent mattress again than reflecting upon his youth.  A week of a sleeping bag and an air mattress that leaked was beginning to play hell with his back.   Although, he had to admit that even though this was a working assignment, he was getting his share of much-needed rest as if this was his vacation as well.

Illya doused his campfire and stood, stretching again.  Above the stars were, one by one, being bolted out by clouds.  The forecast had been calling for rain all day and it looked as if it had finally arrived.  A twinge in Illya’s forearm forecasted it as well.  Who needed meteorologists when you had a lifetime of broken bones and strained joints to tell the forecast with?

He checked out the cabin one more time.  It was dark now, except for the one light in an upstairs window. A bit of minor breaking and entering had proved that to be the loft/bedroom and Illya agreed with the THRUSH.  It’s was time to hit the hay.  Thankfully, just a couple more days and he could return to New York. All this quiet was beginning to make him appreciate the endless bustle of the city.

He walked into the tent he was currently calling home, remembering at the last moment to duck to avoid a low clearance.  He’d only needed to whack his head on that pole a half a dozen times before remembering it was there. 

The on-off chirp of his communicator woke him from a sound sleep some time later. It had been quiet for so long that it took him a moment to identify the noise and then plop his pillow onto it to muffle the sound.  Rain was pattering against the canvas of the tent as he thumbed open the switch and mumbled, "Kuryakin."  He yawned and groped for his flashlight.

"Illya, it's me, Rick. I'm replacing you."

Illya frowned, turned on the flashlight, blinking painfully at the suddenly light.  He squinted at his watch. "It’s the middle of the night.  You're not due for another day and a half."

"Something big is going down at home. Mr. Waverly wants you there now. They even pulled Solo off his vacation in Rio."

"That's sure to put him in good spirits," Illya observed, burrowing back into his sleeping bag. "Where are you now?"

"At the foot of the mountain. There's a clump of rocks just off the road and I’m parked right behind it.  Are you coming to me or am I coming to you?"

“You to me, I think.  I’ll keep my communicator on so you can find me.”

"Okay, give me about twenty minutes."

 Illya set the instrument aside and scratched his weeks’ worth of whiskers.   The thought that this could be a THRUSH trap flitted through his mind as his replacement was a stranger to him, but he dismissed it immediately. If it was, why go to all the bother of intercepting an UNCLE agent, stealing his communicator and then alerting him to their intentions. More likely, they'd just creep up on him and kill him as he slept.

It took just about every bit of reserve he possessed to climb out of the warm bag and begin to pull his clothes on.  He entertained himself with wondering what Waverly had that would require both his and Napoleon’s services.

As they aged, both had seen their duties shifting from the more aggressive field work to the mundane day-to-day tasks.  Napoleon, in line to ascend to Section One, was taking on more and more of Waverly’s duties as the old man grew physically frailer.  Illya, the perennial Section Two, was, in turn, assuming more of Napoleon’s functions and taking the less-demanding tasks, like watching a vacationing THRUSH. 

It didn’t mean that Illya didn’t yearn for the action and excitement of his younger days as an agent, but it took longer and longer in between assignments for him to come back up to snuff.  He now understood why Waverly insisted agent come out of the field at forty.  Being an active field agent was work for younger men, those whose bodies weren’t worn out and tired.

Then Illya grinned at the thought of going out on assignment with his partner.  It had been months since he and Napoleon had gone out together as a team.  They still saw each other, usually daily as they still chose to share an office, but most days, Napoleon went right as Illya headed left.  This could be fun.

 

Nine hours later, a bleary-eyed Illya Kuryakin climbed out of a cab and walked into Del Floria's Tailor Shop.

"Morning, Del," he mumbled to the man behind the counter.

"Afternoon, you mean," Del corrected, eyeing him up and down. "You look like you could use some rest."

"Don't even suggest it.  I have had my fill of rest.  Why people camp is beyond me."   Illya gave him a halfhearted wave and entered the fitting booth to pass into UNCLE HQ New York. He made his way to Waverly's office, not having to be conscious of it.  It was a routine born of much practice.

He paused before Waverly's door, waiting for it to slide open.  He entered and then grinned.

Seated at the main conference table was his partner, Napoleon Solo, and he was not looking too pleased with the current state of affairs.  He’d been on a two-week vacation in Rio and Illya could only imagine the mischief his still good-looking partner had been getting into.  Even though he was graying at his temple, the man was still beating women off with a stick.

Illya squared his shoulders, put on a cheerful face and slid into his usual chair.  "Hello, Napoleon. How was Brazil?"

“Hot, very, very… hot.”  Napoleon was sporting a tan, but it didn’t hide the tiredness in his face.  He traveled about as well as Illya did these days.  Jetting the globe has lost its attraction several years ago.

Alexander Waverly entered then, and both men rose until he seated himself.  The man was moving very slowly these days, but his mind was as sharp as ever.  It made Illya wonder whether he himself would grow old in body or mind first.  Some days, it was hard to tell.

"Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, I'm sorry to have had to interrupt your previous activities, but we have a problem. And it's one that I can trust to no one else.  I regret to inform you that we've lost the _Martha Rose."_

Napoleon sat upright, his face a wash of disbelief. The _Martha Rose_ had been Napoleon’s pet project.  She had been specially outfitted to track the undersea activity of both THRUSH and UNCLE. It had also been a research vessel, running tests of both a defensive and offensive nature.  Napoleon had spent a year gathering resources, building and outfitting the boat.  It was as state of the art as you could get.

"That's a tragic loss. I was very fond of her," Napoleon murmured, his eyes down on the table, seemingly focused upon the assignment folder there, but Illya knew the man’s thoughts were elsewhere.

"It’s much more than that, Mr. Solo. We don't know why it blew up. There was a vessel spotted nearby when the ship went up. We are working on identification now. More importantly, we must salvage the _Martha Rose_ before THRUSH gets in there. You two will be in charge of the operation."

"Why us, sir?"

"Because I trust you to do the job properly and there are items on board that must not fall into enemy hands.  I need to know that I have two men I can count on in every way possible to bring this to its conclusion.  I have contacted the Florida office, and all the arrangements are being made."

Napoleon exchanged a look with his partner and Illya nodded.  "All we need them to do is make sure THRUSH stays far, far, away."

Chapter Two

Illya threaded his way through the debris that lay strewn on the deck - some of the sad remains of the _Martha Rose_. An earlier dive proved that not much remained of the ship's superstructure. All salvageable equipment was therefore being pulled off and brought up.

Illya finger-combed his wet hair and knelt to pick up a coffee cup they'd found, surprisingly undamaged by the ship's violent end. He studied it for a long moment, then tossed it back upon the pile. Around him, the salvage crew bustled, ignoring him, knowing who he was and why he was there, but not caring much.  As far as they were concerned, he was more of a bother than a help in completing their task.

A sharp tug on the rope signaled that the underwater crew was ready, and Illya wondered what the winch would bring up this time.  However, Napoleon accompanied up another unspectacular load. He waved to Illya and pointed to the ladder.

Shrugging his shoulders, Illya wandered across the deck, swerving at the last minute to avoid the net and the gushing water as the load was lowered onto the salvage ship.  Napoleon was already out of the water and halfway up the ladder as Illya met him.

"What's going on?" he asked as Napoleon moved past him and began to struggle out of his scuba gear.

"Plenty, if I'm right. How much do you know about the _Martha Rose_ 's purpose in life?"

"Just the official stuff. She was a fishing frigate that housed a floating surveillance and testing facility. Not much more.  It was even beyond my clearance in Section 2.  Why?"

“Here.”  Napoleon dug into his dive pouch and pulled out a small, sealed plastic bag, then dropped it into Illya's hand. "I found this on board and there's a lot more.  There was a whole cabin was full of the stuff."

Illya took out his pen knife and cut a small hole in the bag and dabbed a bit to his tongue.  “Cocaine?" he asked incredulously.

"As far as I can tell."

"What was the _Martha Rose_ doing with a stockpile of coke in one of her cabins?  Do you think that’s why she was targeted?  But by who?  THRUSH?"

"It’s possible.  They have their fingers in everything else and running drugs is quick money. I think we'd better call it a day and see what our people have to say about it."

"I'll signal the dive crews to come in. It’s going to take about half an hour." Illya slid the plastic bag into pocket of his shirt. "In the meantime I think we'd better recover the rest of this stuff and lock it away.   We wouldn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.”

"Somehow, I think that's already happened."  Napoleon looked out over the horizon.

 

                                                                                ****

"Crockett!"

Tubbs's call made Sonny Crockett bolt upright from where he slumped casually on his boat’s deck.  What's up?"

"Here they come." Tubbs pointed to a slow-moving craft bearing the legend _AA Beam Salvage Company_. "Wonder if their day has been profitable?"

"Well, let's go find out what Mr. Beam has in his hold."

Napoleon looked down at the packets spread before him as he straightened his tie. "Do you realize we are looking at about six million dollars?" he mused idly.  “We could retire to some small island.  What would you do with that kind of money?”

Illya Kuryakin glanced up from his task of tying his sneakers. "I don’t think about it as I will never amass that sort of fortune.  From what I can tell, it makes the men so privileged arrogant, proud, and lazy.”

"What do you have in the bank right now - a couple thousand dollars?"

"In a good month and after everything has been paid off."

"Obviously, crime does pay.  We are obviously in the wrong business."  Napoleon grinned and looked out the porthole. "We are here," he announced as they cruised into port. "You think the stuff is safe here until we arrange a transport?"

"Well, considering how concerned the captain was about taking the stuff on board, I think he will be expedient in getting it off."

"As soon as we call Mr. Waverly with our find, we'll turn it over to the Vice Squad here."

A sudden racket outside their cabin drew their attention, and then a voice bellowed, "Miami Vice! Freeze!"

"But not necessarily in that order," Illya muttered.  He raised his hands to his head as the door to their cabin was kicked in and two very ready and able looking men burst in.  Their guns were drawn and pointed at the UNCLE agents midsections.

“Gentlemen,” Napoleon began politely.  “I think what we have here is the meeting of two minds.”

Chapter Three                                                  

Crockett snuffed out his cigarette in the ashtray and groaned, not bothering to look up at his boss, Lt. Castille.  "We busted UNCLE agents? What the hell were they doing with a ton of coke?"

"I don't know."  The voice was whisper soft, almost belying the strength of the man.

“Maybe they don't think UNCLE pays enough. I mean, we've caught CIA, FBI. They fall; why not UNCLE?"

"Why not UNCLE?  Detective, that would be like accusing the President of the United States of selling secrets to our enemies.  Not that organization and certainly not these two agents." Castille said as the door opened.   Napoleon and Illya were herded in by a tight-faced Rico Tubbs. "Our wayward nephews," he said to Crockett and motioned the pair to chairs.

"Gentlemen, this is Lt. Castille of Miami Vice," Crockett introduced his boss. "Would you like to tell the lieutenant again how you came to find your little stash?"

Napoleon smoothed out his hair with a practiced move, in spite of the handcuffs.  Illya merely affected an air of boredom and looked past them into the squad room beyond.

"They found it on board the _Martha Rose_ ," Crockett growled the answer, since neither man seemed inclined to respond. "That was the ship we had under surveillance."

"Why were you watching the _Martha Rose_?" Napoleon asked as calmly as if inquiring of a waitress the special of the day.

"We ask the questions, buddy," Crockett snapped, in no mood for two uncooperative UNCLE agents. He lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply.

"Because she hit a smaller vessel off Key West four days ago and commandeered its cargo," Tubbs obligingly answered.  "Why was the _Martha Rose_ into drug running?

That doesn't make sense," Napoleon murmured, more to Illya than to any of their captors.

"Unless they were using it as bait for someone else," Illya suggested. "Do we have any THRUSH doing business down here?"

"Not officially. Of course, that doesn't mean it couldn't exist. I wonder if Larry knows anything about this."

“Wouldn’t he have already briefed us if he did?  It’s not like him to withhold information.”

Castille, who'd been silently watching and listening to the two, spoke up with, "Who is Larry?"

"Larry Rogin, head of the UNCLE office here," Napoleon answered, deciding it was time to acknowledge the vice agents' presence.  “Illya, what if he didn’t know?  That casts an entirely different light on the subject.”

“That boat was manned by some of our top agents.  That type of man doesn’t succumb and to insinuate that an entire boatload of agents were part of this, it’s too unbelievable for words.  Waverly needs to know.”  Illya didn't mind playing games, but things were rapidly taking a serious turn.

"I suggest you contact him. Until then, I will have to remind you that you are both under our watchful eye. Remove their handcuffs," Castille ordered, his voice never any louder than a whisper.

"And Tubbs and me intend to watch you both real good," Crockett said, as he roughly undid Solo's manacles.

"I'll sleep better at night for the knowledge," Napoleon said, smiling back at him and rubbed his wrists.

As Crockett reached for Illya’s hands, the agent held the handcuffs out to him.  “Wait, how did you…?”

Illya merely cocked his head and studied the man for a long moment.  “Know your enemy, Detective.  If you had, you would have known handcuffs do not slow either of us down for long.  And you would know that we answer to a higher authority.”

“Higher than the Governor of Florida?  Higher than the President?”

Napoleon chuckled softly.  “Well, I’m not one to hone too fine a point, but if Waverly’s isn’t God, then he is certainly His right hand man.   After you, partner."

                                                                                ****

Larry Rogin shifted uneasily in his seat, carefully avoiding the penetrating eyes of Napoleon Solo.

"Why didn't you tell us, Larry?  Why didn’t you tell Waverly?  Do you even want to imagine how annoyed he was about this little scheme of yours?  And you knew we were walking into a potential time bomb," Napoleon asked, one hand cupping his face, his voice tightly under control. He didn't like being made into a pawn by a contemporary.  “How in the name of God’s green earth, could you have thought this was a good idea?”

"I didn't think it would still be there. I thought it would have dissolved or something. I thought we could handle it.  I thought New York would appreciate our initiative."

“Still bucking for that promotion, aren’t you, Larry?  You realize when Waverly hears about this, you’ll be lucky to have a job as a night watchman in the North Dakota office.”

“We don’t have a North Dakota office.”

“Exactly my point.”

"I would have to agree with Napoleon that it doesn't appear that you thought it through to its obvious conclusion," Illya slumped in his chair, keeping his attitude neutral for the moment. "Do you want to tell us about it now before we call Mr. Waverly with the news? Or would you prefer to explain it directly to him?"

“Guys, you can’t!  This was a good idea; it could have worked so easily.”  Rogin’s voice took on a reedy whine.  "We got a lead that Warren Tanksley --"

"The head of THRUSH's North American branch?" Illya interrupted, sitting upright with renewed interest.

"Yeah, we found out that he'd been doing a lot of betting on the greyhounds down here and losing a lot of money - none of it his. The word on the street was that he'd been dipping into Central's cash box to pay for his ineptness at the track. Suddenly, he's got to put the money back - we figure an audit or something like that. So, he begins to sell drugs - privately, without Central's knowledge."

"And you figured a shipload of cocaine would be just the ticket to lure him to UNCLE," Napoleon finished for him, reluctant to let go of his anger, but becoming more intrigued in spite of himself.

"Yeah. Only they must have nailed us as UNCLE and blew up the _Martha Rose_ ," Rogin sighed and studied his hands.  “We thought she’d be safe, that she’d be able to track and avoid any trouble.  I lost twenty good men, all of them friends of mine, on that boat.  Don’t even start lecturing me about consequences.  I’m going to see their faces every night as I go to sleep.”

"And thereby hangs the tale," Illya muttered, returning to his early position "And not a bad plan at that. It would soothe Mr. Waverly's temper considerably if we were able to turn over a top THRUSH at the same time as explaining how the _Martha Rose_ was made an unwitting victim."

"Illya, you're not suggesting that we continue with this charade?" Napoleon asked incredulously. "It's not bad enough that Larry stands to lose his entire career - you want to go down with him?"

"No, you misunderstand me, Napoleon." Illya raked back a handful of blond hair from his forehead. "We know that this THRUSH needs to have the coke before he can sell it. If we could get that vice pair to set him up, we let them use Tanksley as a pawn to get what they need. I overheard Tubbs, he’s the short one, right?”  Illya ignored Napoleon’s grin.

“I think so.” 

“I heard him say that they had been after some Cuban dealer.  We could suggest it to them.  If they aren't interested, we go to Mr. Waverly and proceed from that point. If they are interested, we get the THRUSH, they get their Cuban, and Larry might just get to keep his retirement."

"Damn, that would be great," Rogin enthused.  He looked over at Napoleon, his eyes pleading.

"We don't know that they'd go for it," Napoleon cautioned.  “And we’d need to read New York into everything we’re thinking of doing.”

"Let Illya explain it to them. They'll love it."  Rogin looked over at the Russian, who was scowling.

"I bet they will," Napoleon muttered.  “They looked like really trusting types.”

Chapter Four

"I hope you know what you're doing," Illya murmured, hunched over from his position at the telescope.  “Waverly wasn’t exactly sanguine about this to begin with, but to release the entirety of the cocaine to those two detectives, I am also dubious as to the chances of their success.

Napoleon sat up from his stretched out position on one of the twin beds and walked over to his partner, patting him on the shoulder.  “When you start talking like that, it’s time for you to take a rest.”

“It’s just that we don't know how competent Tubbs and Crockett are." He sat back and massaged his temples, willing to let Napoleon have a go at the telescope. "I don’t remember stakes out being this long or tiring.” 

"They're top drug enforcement agents, Illya. I am going to trust that they are just as competent at their job as we are at ours.  Of course, I have known days when that wouldn't be much of a compliment as an excuse."

"Let's hope today isn't one of those days."  Illya rolled his shoulders and flexed his head side to side.

"In that case, we will simply rely upon my luck.” He returned his attention to the hotel room across the street.  "Illya"   He snapped his fingers urgently. "We've made contact."

Illya grabbed a pair of binoculars and joined him.  “Now we just have to wait and see if Tanksley takes the bait.”

                                                                                ****

“I like this about as much as I’d like cleaning the squad room toilet.” Crockett settled the sunglasses in place and glanced back at his partner.  Tubbs zipped the duffle bag closed. 

“We can’t expect those UNLCE jokers to go in.  Tanksley will take one look at them and panic.  Those guys tank of authority.”

Crockett gave Tubbs a lopsided grin.  “And what do we tank of, my friend?

“Good looks and class.”  He readjusted his designer jacket over the bulletproof vest.  “I just hope they are right and he doesn’t go for a headshot.”

“It would be contrary to his kill pattern according to that Solo guy.”

“I’ll try and remember that when I’m about to eat his bullet.”

“Let’s do it and hope that those jokers are half as good as we hear they are.”  Crockett climbed out of the corvette and waited for Tubbs, carrying the duffle bag, to join him.

                                                                                *****

 "Looks like they've made the swap and he just shot them.  At least he didn’t go for their heads."

“He never has.  Probably was brought up like us.  Aim for the largest target.”

“Now we only have to wait and see if he contacts Cordova.”  Illya dug his communicator out of his pants pocket.  “Open Channel K.”

“Channel K is open.  Rogin here.”

“Get your agents into position, Larry, and if you value any part of your career, don’t lose him for a second.  Tanksley didn’t get to his position by playing by the rules and if he spots one of them, it will be game over.”

“Got it.  Rogin out.”

“Has his lady friend put her clothes on yet?  Imagine doing business with a naked woman in the room.  Those vice detectives are made out of sterner stuff than me.”    Illya’s question was causal, but it had the effect he’d planned on.

"What?" Napoleon swung the instrument around in a frantic search until Illya's soft chuckle stopped him. "That wasn't funny, partner.”

"I was just trying to relieve the tension.  You try sitting and watching some overweight gentleman amuse himself for an hour.  Such things should be against the law.”

"I'm not that tense and if it’s any consolation, watching him do it through a telescope **is** against the law. Tanksley is coming out.”

“I’ll let the recovery squad that it’s safe to go in and ‘recover’ our corpses.”

Chapter                  Five                                     

The two UNCLE agents sat in the back seat of a car on the darkened street.   Crockett and Tubbs had commandeered the front seat for their turn at the watch. 

The air was still and sultry.  Napoleon loosened his tie and fanned himself absentmindedly with a local map.  Strangely, enough, Illya began to yearn for the quiet of his tent.  The game had seemed a bit more dignified, if such a thing could be applied to camping out.

A large portion of the day had been spent playing cat and mouse with Warren Tanksley.  At first, he was scared and paranoid, but Rogin’s men had proved effective at trailing the man without him realizing it.  Once Tanksley had holed back up in a new hotel room, rented under a new name, he settled down enough to act upon the information that   Crockett and Tubbs had carefully fed him Tanksley’s ear concerning a possible buyer for his newly-acquired goods.  

Eventually Tanksley had put the pieces together and contacted Cordova.  Now, it was a waiting game to see if Cordoba was interested and if Tanksley didn't try a double-cross, they might just pull this off.

"I don't think I like this drug business," he murmured to Illya as he massaged one knee.  For one reason or another, Napoleon had survived bullets, knives, being tossed from a train, multiple car wrecks and a host of other injuries with no after effects.  But he tripped over the office cat twenty years earlier and now hobbled after a day of foot work.  “This doesn’t seem quite as sporting as trying to take out a government or brainwashing a whole country.  It seems more, would you say, intimate?”

“I agree, for what it’s worth.”  Illya had abandoned his suit back at their hotel and swapped it for a polo shirt and light trousers.  The light windbreaker hid his holster and weapon, but it was still too hot to be comfortable. “However, it could be worse.   At least they don’t have you suspended over fast growing bamboo.”

“Or in front of a firing squad.”  Napoleon could smile about it now, but at that moment, he’d feared Illya had been bested.  He now knew you never counted either of them out of the long haul.  “Or trying to dance my way out of that gorilla’s tender embrace.”

“Only you could have a gorilla fall in love with you.  It’s a disease, Napoleon. I’m telling you.”

"Will you two pipe down?" Crockett whispered in their direction. "We don't need these guys to get nervous."

“Tanksley cannot hear us and if I must pass the time in the back of an overheated car, then we shall talk,” Illya said, his voice even.  “It has been awhile since we have had the opportunity.”

Crockett tried for a scowl, but backed down at Illya’s expression.  Inwardly Illya smiled to himself.  _After all these year, I still have it_ , he thought and let one corner of his mouth twitch up.

“I imagine you two have been everywhere and seen everything.”  Tubbs sounded just plain envious and that was when Illya realized this was probably the whole and sum of his experiences – the streets of Miami.  No jetting around the world, no diabolical harebrained plots of world conquest, no bizarre weapons or inventions, how very dull it seemed. 

“Yes, I think we can both claim to having been shot on all seven continents,” Napoleon said, a grin lighting up his face.  “Wouldn’t you agree, partner?”

“As well as a few sub continents.”  Illya brushed his hair off his forehead and smiled fondly at his friend.

“And you did get to experience the joy of the Foreign Legion, an avalanche in the Himalayas, as well as being s stowaway on a frigate and used as bait a number of times.”

Illya caught sight of Crockett watching them in the rear view mirror.  “And yet I never danced with a gorilla…”

Napoleon’s grin broadened.  “Well, some of us are destined for greatness.”

“And the rest of us are brainwashed, radiated, and mummified.”

Crockett’s eye grew wide and Illya had the feeling the detective’s world had just taken a slight shift.  Illya ignored him and leaned forward to Tubbs, just as a group of men approached the hotel.

“And right on target,” Tubbs’ muttered, his voice hard.  “Cautious bastard, always brings his entourage with him.”

"Which one is Cordoba?"  Napoleon, too, had leaned forward to study the approaching men.

"That pig there," Tubbs replied, pointing as a slender man paused before the hotel.  He was wearing so much gold jewelry he fairly sparkled in the lamp light.  He glanced at something in his hand and then back up at the sign.  He nodded briefly and two of the men dwarfing him and they moved ahead of him. "He's gotten where he is by climbing over the bodies killed by the crap he sells.  We get him, we knock down thirty percent of the market in Miami alone.”

Crockett snuffed out his cigarette and shifted. "Where's your pigeon, Mr. Solo?" 

“Because of the nature of his indiscretion, he is sitting in his hotel room alone.”

“That’s a bad call no matter who you were dealing with, but with a drug dealer like Cordova, that makes no sense at all.  He’ll mop the floor with him.”  Crockett watched as the last of the Cuban’s men disappeared from street view.  “How many men do you have in place to protect him?”

“Why would we want to protect him?” Illya asked.  “Whether Tanksley comes out of this dead or alive, we don’t very much care.  He will be of more use to us alive, but dead, he will be a problem solved.”

“That’s a hard assed, calloused view,” Crockett muttered.

“How many men have you killed, detective?” Napoleon asked softly.

“A few.”

“We’ve killed hundreds to save thousands.  We do whatever it takes to stop THRUSH, no matter the cost, no matter the indignities, no matter the injuries.  We stop them.  Our world is very different than yours.  You uphold the law; we are the law.”  Napoleon’s communicator started to beep and Illya’s joined in a second later.   “Open Channel F.”

“We’re in position and have spotted the drug dealer and company.  Orders?”

“Wait for the exchange and then take them all down.”  Napoleon’s eyes never left Crockett’s.

“Acknowledged.

"We'll be right along to join you. Out."   Napoleon tucked the communicator away and smiled.  “Are you ready, partner?”

“More than.”

"They taught you both how to shoot, haven’t they?" Crockett asked, his tone chiding as he pulled his weapon.

“Try me.”  Illya slid his Walther from the holster and checked his clip, as Napoleon did the same.

"Trust me, Mr. Crockett, we both know what we’re doing."

"Sleepers, Napoleon?" Illya asked, holding two clips in his hand.

“I'm not opposed to prisoners, especially if we can make our little bird sing for us.  Do you have any objections, Mr. Crockett, if we take them alive?"

"What are you talking about?" Crockett asked, irritated.

"Sleeper bullets," Illya explained. "A specially designed bullet that carries a sleep dart in it. They put the recipient out for eight hours or more, depending where it hits."

"They're fine, as long as we don't suffer any fatalities from them. Rico and I are still playing for keeps on this one."

"Then just don't aim at Tanksley," Napoleon ordered, checking his gun one last time. "Detective Crockett, would you like to lead?"

“Try and stop me.”  The man slipped out of the car, closely followed by his partner. 

 “Were we ever that young, Napoleon?”  Illya grinned, wide and unguarded, the sort that he only shared with his partner and few others. 

“I believe a time or two, yes, Illya, we were.”   Napoleon watched for a moment and slowly shook his head.  “Now I believe we fall under the older and wiser heading.”

 

Epilogue

 

Illya wiped his face, then his neck with a paper towel.  The water helped, but he still felt over heated and not very happy.  That wasn’t the mood that permeated his companions.  They were positively jovial.  They’d captured Tanksley alive and Rogin was well on his way to making points with Waverly.

The THRUSH once he realized he’d been captured, followed the path of least resistance and began to sing, well, like a bird.  Illya smiled grimly at his reflection.  His hair was slicked back and there were dark circles under his eyes.  It was hard to believe four days ago he was about to go out of his mind with boredom from being so rested.  What a difference a day made.

He walked back into the squad room where Napoleon was finishing up details with the Miami vice people

Tubbs notice his approach and offered him an outstretched hand.  "You are okay in a fight. You ever think about giving up UNCLE and moving into drug enforcement?"

Illya took the hand, amazed at the difference between his, battle scarred and large knuckled over the detective’s smooth and well-manicured hand.

“To be honest, Detective Tubbs, I don’t believe you could afford either of us.”  He glanced over at his partner, arguing quietly with Lt. Castille.  “We do not always… play well with others.”

"Could you imagine Miami with them running around in it?" Crockett asked, coming around his desk.  “I’ve seen some pretty fancy shooting in my day, but you two take the cake.  Within a week, the city would be yours.”

Napoleon’s face was not happy as he approached them.  “Napoleon, what’s wrong?”

“Castille is insisting that we leave Tanksley here to face local charges before sending him back to New York.”  It was obvious that he didn’t agree.

“That’s usually the way extradition works,” Crockett said, patting his pockets for his cigarettes.  “First us, then you since we have prior claim.”

“That’s not the way we work.”  Illya’s hand was reaching for his communicator, but Napoleon caught and lowered it.

“Then perhaps we should just be content that the man is with our people at the moment and talking so willingly.  He will do more damage to THRUSH within the next twenty four hours than he will in however long it takes to bring him back to New York.”  He smiled at Illya and shook his head.  “Trust me, old friend.”

"Crockett, I think this situation calls for a celebration."  Tubbs slapped his hands together and then laughed as both UCNLE agents reached for the weapons.  “You two are still way too high strung to leave Miami.  You need to loosen up, take in the local color, and let Miami take over your soul.  You need to see why we are a vacation destination for the world” 

"Okay."

"On your boat."

"Not okay. Elvis isn't receiving visitors this week."

"Oh come on, Crockett. I'll bet Illya would be able to soothe even his temper."

"Who's Elvis?" Napoleon glanced over at them and then back at his partner.

“Oh, just a friend of mine.  He watches my boat when I’m working. He's got your taste in clothes, Solo. In fact, I'd say he'd eat them up."  He smiled and Napoleon looked over at Illya.

“Sounds okay with me.  Illya?”

“Is it too late to say I miss my tent?”

“Yes, I do believe it is.”  He wrapped an arm around his partner’s shoulders.  “Besides when was the last time we tied one on together?”

“And the city remained standing?  Ah, I do believe it was Kosovo, 1968.”

“’69.”

“Are you sure?”

“That’s a number I never forget, Illya.”

Crockett choked, Tubbs stared and Illya grinned.  No matter what, life was always a bit more interesting with a dash of Napoleon involved.

 

 

 


End file.
